And thus are shopping obsessions born. We scan every store we pass, our eyes sweeping over the racks with a practiced ease born of equal parts desperation and thrill of the hunt. If spotted, all other tasks are abandoned while we descend like manic, denim Valkyries, snatching up our prey and winging back to the Frozen Yoghurt stand with the grace and speed of a deadly hawk.
My Aunt Betty was the undisputed champion of the shop-hunt. That woman would stalk the shelves with an icy calm that would put any cheetah to shame, mercilessly discarding lesser items until she caught sight of that perfect victim -- generally something that had been marked down from several hundred dollars to a buck fifty, hidden behind the Mama Cass swimwear line by some ruthless cashier wanting to keep the good stuff for themselves. "Oh they all do it," Betty would cheerfully crow, as she thrust the treasured prize in front of the sullen clerk. "These sales people are all crooks."
As much as I loved my aunt, and miss her dearly, I lay the blame for my skewed shopping ethic at her feet. Sure there are advantages to gradually accumulating Christmas and birthday gifts throughout the year, rather than saving it up for one big expensive glut a few days before the blessed event. But every shopping excursion feels like a damn divine mission, with Betty's voice urging me on from beyond the grave: "Buy two of them! If you love it now, you'll miss it later when it's worn out!" Or: "You'll need eight stocking stuffers that aren't too strongly scented, because they'll ruin the orange at the bottom." And of course: "That mega box of Saran Wrap will pay for itself in the thirty years it will take you to use it up." And so on.
It's not like I'm a hoarder, or a shopoholic. I spend within my means, and don't return from every trip with a boat load of crap. I buy selectively, and not all that often. But the hunt is always on my mind. And the impulse has only gotten stronger with the arrival of a son in my life.
Now there's a whole new world of stuff to keep an eye out for, clothes being the dominant of these, as children grow about three feet a month. And toys. Oh god, the toys. The amount of time I spend on Ebay, searching for the (now vintage) toys I grew up with is downright exhausting. The bonus is that they're hard to find in good condition, and usually dirt cheap -- generally because most of them are covered with the filth of three decades or more. But those Fisher Price school toys from the 1970s are just so much nicer, so much less shittily-made than the current iterations that it's irresistible.
This may make it sound like my son has a ton of toys, but he doesn't really. Sure he's got bucket full of Thomas trains, and a bunch of tracks for them to ride on, and a whole whack of puzzles, but the rest of his booty is relatively small compared to what I've seen at other kids' houses. I'm always on the look out, though.
But the greatest hunt of all has to be the search for the Emergency Replacement Didi. Didi is one of the most important members of our household. Always cheerful, always comforting, never without a smile on her uplifting little face, Didi has truly made all our lives better. God help us if this stalwart companion and confidente were ever to go missing.
Didi was the first stuffed toy Pre-Schooler N ever expressed an interest in. Originally purchased on a whim by Professor D for my birthday, Didi was, for several years, a casual occupant of my bed until spied by the then-20-month-old Toddler N.
It was love at first sight. Since 'ladybug' was a little beyond his vocabulary at the time, this adorable little friend became 'didibuh', or, 'Didi' for short.
Two years later, the love affair has only deepened. Tantrums are gotten over quickly with Didi's help, and bedtimes are eased by a nice private chat betwixt the two after parental goodnights have transpired and the adults have left the room. Naturally, I live in terror that anything should ever happen to this fabric covered friend. Yikes.
Alarmingly, it turns out that the shop from which Professor D first procured Didi no longer carries them, and she is impossible to purchase over the Internet from retail outlets. There is an importer/wholesaler, but I would have to be a registered business and buy a case of the little darlings (and yes, I did try, but they won't sell to individuals).
It was a flower shop at Montreal's Trudeau Airport that finally eased my impending sense of doom. I was zipping by, late as usual for my bi-weekly flight to Toronto, when a flash of red, white and black caught my eye and stopped me in my tracks. No, it couldn't be. But yes, it was! There, on a shelf, tucked behind a neon plastic orchid and pink teddy bear with "Have a Sunshine Day" emblazoned across his fluffy chest, was a smiling (if a little dusty) Didi.
Flight be damned, I dropped my suitcase and practically leapt over the confused cashier as I retrieved my prize. And as my hand closed over the soft, squishy, plush body, I heard that familiar whisper in my ear... a voice from long ago, so dearly missed, and so eternally practical:
"Buy two."
And so I did. Hell, I would have bought more if they'd had them, just to be on the safe side. Yes, my beloved Aunt Betty may be responsible for this everlasting wariness and hunter's instinct, never letting me rest even a decade after her passing. But now I know that, come rips, tears, vomit, nocturnal urine incidents, inadvertent trips out the car window and general fabric wear and decay, there will always be a Didi in our lives.
Now if I could only find a back-up Scooby Doo racing van with detachable hood...
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